


with the truth of your universe/pierce the heavens

by 9_miho



Series: blue (white) caravan [4]
Category: Big Hero 6 (2014), Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Everyone Needs A Hug, Gen, Ghost Tadashi, Hiro Needs a Hug, Post-Apocalypse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Survivor Guilt, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-28
Updated: 2015-06-28
Packaged: 2018-04-06 16:03:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4228155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/9_miho/pseuds/9_miho
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fredzilla is writing a song in thought and color and memory. He writes it over the blank spots in the sheet music folder (dawn blue – E# - Heroes we be). It’s not for his sake. It’s for someone else’s. Because Fredzilla thinks about a day they might die, though they think he’s blithe and blind (cheerful indifference verging on improper – violating rules of survivors that drift on the winds and band together grimly and trade favors because the dunes can eat you in one bite and the sun burns you slowly to a crisp if the raiders don’t get you first). And well – if they are going to becoming archetypes (models, types, the fundamental story), he’ll have a good song for them to be in, though they’ll forget his real name in favor of his flame patterned guitar and his blue hood and the book of secrets that he keeps slung on his back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	with the truth of your universe/pierce the heavens

Fredzilla’s favorite book isn’t one of his bright, flimsy, tattered picture books with chiseled men and buxom women (but he loves those, even the silly ads for “x-ray specs” and “Mexican jumping beans” promising “hours of fun”). His absolute favorite is a dictionary, each page with lettering smaller than his pinky nail, the pages nearly see through and so fragile they threaten to shatter with a turn. He lets everyone borrow it for a turn but he’s the only one who actually, well, reads it. A book to tell words what they are – the old world really was something, wasn’t it? A world that made more worlds that could just be in your own head or on paper (and those pictures stuck around in your own head and infected other worlds until you had a tapestry, a weaving, a gorgeous purring engine that you fed with words and pictures and sounds and smells and textures).

 

People who see Fredzilla have called him “holy” because of his bright blue hood and big book and guitar. They eye the instrument particularly because it’s colored like bruises and dark blood with flame orange details and crystal topped pegs and shiny keys and chrome strings and buttons and _two_ levers (one’s tipped with a lizard skull with orange glass eyes). And when he plays, he plays _fire_.

 

Or so it’s said.

 

He’s come across the stuff called “sheet music,” one sheaf of it in a cover that says “Guitar for Beginners.” There is enough to see the fingering and the notes and Fredzilla doesn’t rely on the notations anymore because he’s taught himself the tones and he works on the tones instead, those beautiful tones that paint his vision with each note and he gives them names from the dictionary, just as he’d named their band.

 

(Band

_noun_ ,

1\. a range of frequencies or wavelengths in a spectrum (especially of radio frequencies);

2\. a group of people who have a common interest or purpose;

3\. a small group of musicians and vocalists who play pop, jazz, or rock music.

 

And they are a range, they have a common purpose, they create a sort of music that isn’t music.)

 

The tones from strings are always more vivid, more varied, never bleeding into each other but in stripes and layers and specks that thrum and spin and shatter in a sort of dance (“define ‘dancing.’” And he dreams of two figures moving around each other and then with each other amongst stardust). There is the yellow of Honey Lemon’s hair (saffron, daffodil, vermillion), the not blue and not black of a sky with just a bit of sun (lapis, cobalt, midnight), the many, many shades of red and orange and pale blue in a single flame (tomato, blueberry, citron). There is the gray of his strings and the not-white that is Baymax’s shell and skin.

 

(Bay

_noun_ , a body of water forming an indentation of the shoreline, larger than a cove but smaller than a gulf, affording access to a body of water.

Max

_adjective_ , maximum, the greatest quantity or amount possible, assignable, allowable, etc. _to the max_ to the greatest or furthest degree.

 

“A protected place but accessible. The greatest possible – to the greatest and furthest. Protection and transport. And nothing but the best.”

 

It rolled off the tongue so well and Fredzilla wasn’t really prone to envy but oh how he sighs at how easily it was matched. _Baymax_ , it’s a beautiful shining white with two black spots, soft like how a cloud looks soft)

 

Fredzilla is writing a song in thought and color and memory. He writes it over the blank spots in the sheet music folder (dawn blue – E# - _Heroes_ _we be_ ). It’s not for his sake. It’s for someone else’s. Because Fredzilla thinks about a day they might die, though they think he’s blithe and blind (cheerful indifference verging on improper – violating rules of survivors that drift on the winds and band together grimly and trade favors because the dunes can eat you in one bite and the sun burns you slowly to a crisp if the raiders don’t get you first). And well – if they are going to becoming archetypes (models, types, the fundamental story), he’ll have a good song for them to be in, though they’ll forget his real name in favor of his flame patterned guitar and his blue hood and the book of secrets that he keeps slung on his back.

 

Of course, if Fredzilla can sing flame and guzzoline and heroes, he can paint loss too, which creeps around them, seemingly a mirage in the distance but doing odd things and not following trajectories or pathways because the heat has mucked up horizons. He can see sighs, sick gray and green, and other little sounds that become like flecks of weird colored dust.

 

When it’s like a haze around the main cabin, circling ominously around a particular dark-haired head, Fredzilla puts aside the book, puts aside the guitar, and just leans, until his and Hiro’s shoulders meet. He could maybe sing to cancel out those poisoned, lingering, sickening color-notes but he doesn’t. Instead, he lets there be silence except for the soft white and black of the best protection-transport they have.

**Author's Note:**

> I decided to be a little silly and NOT give Fred an American superhero but look to anime instead. I think Fred would adore Kamina from Gurren Lagann in particular.
> 
> Also, Fred is the bard of the group, full stop. While writing this, I spontaneously decided that he’d have synesthesia too (sounds as colors).


End file.
